Assassin's Kiss
by Mr Sinister
Summary: More WebSlinger X action. The underworld turf war hots up, as Kingpin orders Delilah to clean up one of his longstanding problems...
1. Assassin's Kiss Part One

The muscular woman called Delilah lifted her weights with both hands, though she could just as easily have used one. Call it force of habit. She lazily pressed the giant blocks of steel and concrete, feeling her muscles knotting under her smooth porcelain skin, a couple of rivulets of sweat snaking their way down her neck through her raven-dark hair and long black ponytail. It wasn't perspiration from effort so much as the length of time she'd spent in the gym – it was hot despite the ventilation shafts that surrounded it. She gritted her teeth and heaved the weights back onto their specially reinforced platform, and toweled herself off, turning her attention to the malleable training dummy in the corner of the room. It was filled with impact-responsive gel that would glow a certain color according to the force of the attack leveled against it. Red indicated a level of lethal force, green simply a nerve hit. She snapped off a few kicks at hip level, hitting the dummy in the groin and thigh area, the gel turning instantly from its natural, clear color to a neon-bright yellow. She fired off a couple of straight punches, the dummy's head lolling and twisting back on itself, and drove a knee towards its stomach area, almost tearing it in half. She resisted the temptation to let herself rip at it without restraint, and instead simply rattled its neck and torso with bruising straight rights and left crosses that left the gel shining red. She felt a little smile cross her lips as she did so. _Life is good,_ she thought contentedly.

* * *

Wilson Fisk looked at the box in his office. It had just been delivered to him personally by one of his aides, and it was something he'd been waiting for with a great deal of anticipation. The mere sight of the box was enough to make him break into a wide smile – something that he wasn't used to doing, except after a particularly successful take-over of one of his pathetic little competitors' businesses. He stripped the packing tape off the outside of the box, flipping open the lid which had been stamped with an Osborn Industries logo in miniature and reaching in amongst the polystyrene foam that had helped to cushion the contents of the box. Drawing his hand out after rummaging around inside the box for a moment, Fisk brought with it a small glass vial, the contents of which were gently glowing with a faint purple light. He smiled again, like a shark closing in on a seal pup, and then pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Delilah, would you come to my office, please." He thought she knew him well enough by now to realize that that had not been a request, and, sure enough, she soon appeared at the entrance to his office, her hair slick with moisture and her long ponytail draped over her shoulder.

"You wanted to see me?" she asked, putting her left hand on her hip and adjusting the towel she had draped over her shoulder.

"Indeed so," Fisk replied. "Please, sit down." He gestured at the leather-covered chair opposite him with one huge hand. He set the vial down on the surface of the desk for a moment and steepled his fingers together. "Now, then. I would like you to do something for me, Delilah. The contents of this vial are very important. They will help me end this war." He leaned forwards in his chair and handed the vial and its contents to Delilah. "Deliver them and you will be rewarded handsomely, I assure you…" He leaned back into a sitting position again and interlocked his hands. "Now, then…"

* * *

Mad Jack watched, unseen by either Delilah or the Kingpin. His soulless black eye-sockets took in everything that transpired between the two of them, and the small camera and tape recorder in his hands collected physical evidence of what the Kingpin was planning. He chuckled to himself almost inaudibly. "Naughty, naughty…" he crowed. "That's not the way to earn friends, lad… that's not the way at _all._" His soft laughter echoed as the wind danced around him like a lover, almost gentle in its caresses.

* * *

Peter Parker blinked and tried to stand perfectly still. It was more difficult than he thought it would be, despite his Spider-powers giving him the ability to balance much better than a normal man. He supposed it was due to the fact that he was half-naked, draped in something that MJ would have considered revealing. "Oh, sweetest?" he said, trying to sound as sincere as he could. "How long do I have to stand here?" MJ didn't look up from her sketchpad, her pencil darting furiously over the crisp white paper.

"As long as you have to, Peter," she said, her eyes still focused on the drawing in front of her. "You _did_ agree to this, remember?" Peter arched an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but I didn't think I'd have to stand here in a tiny sheet with nothing but the drafts for company," he protested. "I think even my goosebumps have goosebumps!"

MJ finally looked up from her pad. "I know, Peter, but you're the only guy I know who has a nice enough set of muscles for this look to work," she said, her voice honeyed, as if to appease him. "Besides," she added, "I like looking at you without much on."

Peter grinned. "Flatterer. The feeling's mutual, I assure you." MJ stuck her tongue out at him, and scrubbed out a mistake with the eraser on the other end of her pencil.

"Keep up with that mouth, mister, and that won't be happening for a long time. Now hold still, you're losing the pose." 

"Yes, mistress," Peter said, grinning. "Your wish is my command."

"That's more like it."

* * *

"Thought ye might like to see these," Mad Jack said, producing the small photographs he had obtained. "They're pretty juicy, if you know what to look for." The man in the purple hood who called himself the Rose snatched them with a gloved hand and flipped through them, a look of shock coming into his eyes as he realized just who the Kingpin was talking to. He realized that he ought not to be – Delilah was a mercenary; she'd work for whoever paid her the highest amount of money – but still, it did unnerve him to see his former right-hand woman working for another. He found it… unsettling.

"Got ye a tape-recording of the whole thing, too," Mad Jack said in his lilting Irish brogue as he dangled the small tape recorder from his gloved fingers. "Aren't ye proud of me?"

The Rose said nothing at that, but simply snatched the recorder from Jack's fingers, listening to what Fisk had planned for a moment or two before making his mind up about what course of action to take. "Thank you, Jack," he said, his teeth on edge. "Follow Delilah. See if you can gather more information on her mission. Don't step in unless you have to – I don't want to see her harmed, if at all possible." Jack cocked his head.

"Harborin' a soft spot for the old gal still, are ye?" he said through his odd mask, a trace of amusement flitting through his voice. "From the looks of her, I don't blame ye." He grinned – as much as a pumpkin _could _grin, at any rate – and silently floated away, leaving the Rose to ponder his next move.

* * *

Staten Island was cold at this time in the evening. Delilah hardly noticed it, however – part of the advantages she had gained with her super-strength had been the ability to withstand far greater extremes of hot and cold than she had previously. Her skin had barely prickled and her hands and feet still felt as warm as they had when she had been lifting weights. It was child's' play to evade the security measures that Fortunato had put in place here in his _sanctum sanctorum_ – even the fat, lazy guards that wandered here and there periodically were easy to avoid; and when they weren't (which was a rare occurrence), all she needed to do was displace a vertebra here, an eye-socket there, and her path was once again clear. It was almost painfully straightforward.

Which in her hearts of hearts, Delilah found profoundly disturbing. It was either a case of Fortunato being so stupid as to only protect himself with the bare minimum of strength, or of him allowing her to get this far, with his real strengths still hidden. 

Nevertheless, she managed to make her way to the walls of the Don's home, and flattened herself against it, creeping slowly towards the best entrance she could find – a window on the second floor. It flapped and creaked in the wind, and sounded none-too-happy to be open – which meant that it was probably deserted. Nobody sane would put up with that kind of noise without at least _trying_ to close it. Delilah decided to take advantage of what had been presented as a golden opportunity, and fired the grapnel at her wrist with the minimum of noise. It hissed from the launcher and hooked itself over something solid inside the building, and she was able to haul herself hand over hand into the building. Once she was in, she retracted it and crept closer to her target. According to his incredibly precise routine, Fortunato would be watching the nightly news at this point, along with his son, Giacomo – otherwise known as Jimmy 6 – a mobster just as mean and flinty as his old man. Delilah decided she didn't want to tangle with the man directly, and so headed down the stairs quietly, heading towards the kitchens. It was here, she knew, that the old man's dinner would be prepared, along with his single glass of fine malt whiskey. She had to get to it quickly, or all her effort would be for nothing.

She reached the kitchens and saw a young Hispanic maid putting the finishing touches to the elaborate, spicy chicken dish that lay on the plate before her. She stepped away from it for a few moments, heading towards the oven behind her in order to retrieve something else. Delilah crept noiselessly towards the silver tray and, cautiously, when the young maid's attention was distracted, tipped the contents of the vial she had carrying in a pocket at her hip into the crystal decanter that held the expensive whiskey Fortunato liked to indulge himself with. It fizzed for a second or two, but that was enough time for Delilah to retreat silently and leave the kitchen as if she had never been there in the first place.

Mad Jack watched. She was good, this Delilah, he'd give her that at least. He supposed he could go to Fortunato with what he'd just learned, and make a tidy profit.

_But that ain't what I'm doin' this for, is it? _

* * *

Fortunato and Jimmy 6 poured over the maps of New York, seeing where their territory's lines lay this particular week. Fortunato grunted when he saw that a profitable crack operation in the South Bronx had been crushed by the NYPD. Jimmy 6 saw what his father was looking at and said "Yeah, that was a doozy, Pop. But don't worry, I got plans for that dump –"

Fortunato cut him off with a wave of a liver-spotted hand. "Don't insult my intelligence, Giacomo. I can do that myself, despite what some of your friends might think." He snorted, and reached for the cut-glass decanter. "I don't need youngsters to tell me how to run a family…"

* * *

Delilah shrugged her shoulders. "Fortunato's worm food," she said shortly. "I put that stuff you gave me in his whiskey. The old coot's as good as dead." She tossed the empty vial onto the Kingpin's desk as if to underline her point. The Kingpin smiled thinly.

"Good. Good. You've done well, Delilah. Here –" and he pushed a briefcase filled with crisp notes towards her "– you may take this as a bonus for your services to me this day. I'm certain they will do me a great deal of good in the near future." He observed with pleasure the greedy light in Delilah's eyes as she took the briefcase and briefly thumbed through one of the stacks of bills.

"All in a day's work," she said, with a nasty grin.

* * *

"She killed Fortunato," Jack told the Rose, who raised an eyebrow and tapped his masked chin with a fingertip.

"Indeed? I didn't think Kingpin would dare be so bold as to do anything that might alienate him from the other families, but apparently I was wrong." He shook his head. "This certainly presents me with some interesting circumstances, doesn't it?" He scratched at his throat where the mask touched it, and cocked his eyebrows, one of his cheeks lifting beneath the leather. "Never let it be said that I'm not adaptable, though. We shall have to see what kind of opportunities this new set of circumstances affords us, my pumpkin-headed friend." He threw Mad Jack a thick wad of used bills. "In the meantime, spend that on whatever you wish." Jack caught it casually with one gloved hand and cackled softly.

"Thank ye, sir," he said, his eye sockets blazing with supernatural flame. The Rose threw him another pile of bills, saying "And consider this a bonus for keeping that wall-crawling irritant out of my hair for the moment. Make sure he doesn't interfere with the meetings tomorrow." Mad Jack cawed sadistically, and nodded.

"My pleasure," he said icily.

He floated away from the Rose's company, holding the thick bundle of bills on one hand, and settled in a small alcove a few hundred feet from the makeshift office – far enough so that he was sure he could not be overheard by the man who was nominally his employer. He reached into a pouch at his waist and drew out a battered photograph that was frayed and worn at the edges, dog-eared flaps folding over at the corners and threatening to break off through sheer wear and tear. J. Jonah Jameson and his wife Marla stared cheerily from the picture, unaware of the demon currently looking down on them. Jack O' Lantern frowned slightly, and the picture was suddenly bisected by flame, the Jamesons' faces bubbling and popping as the photograph disintegrated.

_I'll be back soon, Jameson,_ he thought. _Sooner than you think…_

* * *


	2. Assassin's Kiss Part Two

Spider-Man let go of the webline he was using to swing through the concrete jungle of Manhattan, and gracefully somersaulted once or twice before sticking out a hand and shooting off a fresh line that quickly anchored itself to the corner of the nearest building. It caused a jarring sensation in his shoulder, but no great extent – Peter was used to the sensation by now and paid it no heed, really. He was too busy basking in the sunshine and the cloudless sky – and the very definite lack of bank robberies or car chases that usually conspired to destroy his enjoyment of these sorts of occasions. It wasn't often that he got to websling purely because he felt like it, but when he did, he always made sure that he made the most of it.

_Pity MJ couldn't enjoy it with me,_ he thought. _She'd have loved to be this high up – and it would have stopped me looking like a clown in that ridiculous get-up she had me modeling. _ He stopped and snickered to himself as he flipped over and over, landing on the side of a building and clinging there next to a wide-mouthed gargoyle. _Says the man in skin-tight spandex – it's not like _I_ can talk about ridiculous get-ups, considering who I like to spend most of my social time with. Heck, even the Shocker's outfit actually looks pretty swell next to what MJ had me wearing. Still… it made her happy. Maybe now I can convince her to dress more like Jessica Alba…_ He sighed beneath his mask as he patted the grotesque gargoyle on the head. _Ahh, who am I kidding? MJ'd never agree to wear that much leather – not unless I waited on her hand and foot for about three weeks straight. _He sighed again. _Hey – I'm a liberated man, I can do that. _His smile widened underneath his mask. _Ain't married life grand? _

* * *

The northern city limits were cold, swept by a biting easterly breeze that chilled the bones and set the teeth on edge. Wilson Fisk seemed untroubled by it, though, and neither did the muscular woman standing by his side, despite the fact that she was sparsely clothed, and what clothes she did wear were designed to display her body rather than shield it from the elements. Behind the Kingpin were several suited thugs who carried machine pistols and surly looks. About five meters away from the brutal ensemble, there stood an almost exact mirror image – except at the head of this assembly of men was Fortunato, and his son, Jimmy 6. Fortunato wheezed quietly in the wind, and leaned on a cane that had an elegant ivory handle, his thin shoulders covered by a thick coat. If his face had not been ruined by the large eyepatch that obscured his left eye, he could have easily been taken for an ordinary, run-of-the-mill eccentric businessman. As it was, however, the patch leant him a look of brutal efficiency and viciousness that would have made lesser men afraid. Fisk, however, was not intimidated. Ever since he had snapped the neck of the previous Don in order to ascend to the highest echelons of power, he had not been afraid of anything – save losing that power. Fortunato was little more than an annoyance to be rubbed out.

"Fisk," Fortunato said in a dry wheeze.

"Fortunato." Fisk kept his voice impassive. "Well, it would seem we are all here. Why don't we get right to the nub of the matter? I'm assuming you don't want to waste any more time on pointless small talk?"

Fortunato's grizzled face twisted upwards into a slight smile. "Very astute, Fisk. Very astute. Let's get this over with, then, shall we?"

The Kingpin smiled. _Yes indeed. Let's..._

* * *

The explosion immediately ruined Peter's mood. _I knew today was too good to be true,_ he thought miserably, as he heard the sound of glass popping and shattering from the intense heat. Squinting in the direction of the noise, he saw that the source of the belching black smoke and long orange tongues of flame was a Kingsley International building – from the look of it an office block. Half of the building's façade had been ripped away by the explosion, and Peter tried hard not to look at some of the twisted remains of people that were sprawled underneath large, sharp pieces of concrete. Spraying some webbing onto his hands he fashioned a makeshift pair of gloves so that he could try to shift the larger pieces out of his path without slicing his hands to ribbons. He coughed as some of the thick greasy smoke filling the building got in under his mask, and lifted it to wipe away some spittle before securing it in place again.

"Come on, fella," he said, offering his hand to a man whose legs were pinned underneath a fallen roof support. "Let's get you out of here." The man shook his balding head, his few strands of remaining hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and his eyes filled with pain. 

"I – I can't," he said, his voice shaky and hesitant. "My ankle's broken –" He stopped and screamed with shock as the support shifted slightly. Quickly, Spidey moved in closer and got his hands underneath the support, and heaved. It shifted enough for the man to move his leg out of the way. It was pretty mashed up, but Peter was sure that if he splinted it with some webbing it would be okay. There were bound to be some EMTs on the scene soon who'd be able to give him some better, more lasting treatment, he reasoned.

"You want me to take a look at that?" said a voice that Spidey had not heard in a really, _really_ long time, from over Peter's shoulder. "I _am_ a qualified doctor, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he replied, before turning and standing to come face to blue-and-white face with Dr. Elias Wirtham – who, unknown to Peter, was also the superhuman entity known simply as **Cardiac**. "What are you doing here, Cardiac?"

"Saving lives, like you," Cardiac replied, kneeling down to check the man's leg. "You'll live," he told the startled man. "Here," and he handed him a powerful sedative capsule. "Take this – it ought to make it hurt a lot less. Tell the paramedics to get you to an emergency room as quickly as they can, though – I can't fix that with what I've got on me right now. You need that in plaster as soon as possible, or it's going to have to come off." The man nodded, and watched Cardiac stand again with wide, saucer-shaped eyes. 

"It's okay," Peter said softly. "This is one of the good guys. Last time I checked, anyway. You want to reassure him too, _Cardiac?"_ Cardiac sighed, and spread his hands out to either side.

"He's right. I'm just here to help." His armor glinted in the light of the fire, and Spidey felt the heat approaching more quickly than he would have liked. 

"There are still more people trapped in here, let's get to them." Cardiac nodded, all thoughts of verbal sparring put away for the moment, and he picked up the man and stowed him across his shoulder, sprinting away towards the makeshift entrance the explosion had created. Watching him go for a moment, Spidey quickly put his mind on the task in hand. He found an unconscious woman underneath her desk and put her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry after giving her CPR in order to get her breathing again. He then did the same for a startled-looking but conscious man, who had been just across the way from where Peter was presently stood, his arm cut deeply by a thick shard of glass. Carrying the two of them effortlessly, even if the man did wriggle a little too much for his liking, he deposited them outside the building. "Watch her!" he told the man hurriedly. "If she stops breathing again, do what I just did!" The man was too shocked to do anything else except sink back onto his haunches and nod dumbly as Spidey hopped back towards the building's ripped-up shell. 

The fire fighters arrived more quickly than Peter had thought they would, but he was grateful nonetheless as the flames died down, and the building was made as safe as it could be again. As the EMTs attended to those people that he had managed to get out of the building, he saw Cardiac trying to make an unobtrusive exit, and despite his misgivings, he decided that it was probably a better course of action to let Cardiac – for now, at least. He had not, after all, endangered any lives, and he had not tried to wrap that staff of his around anybody's neck, either, so until he could figure out what Cardiac's game plan was, he really had no choice.

_Besides,_ he thought,_ he needs to show his face without those white stripes, otherwise he'll have no civilian identity to hide behind._ He sighed. He'd tried that before, and it hadn't been much fun. Better to let Cardiac keep that particular luxury. He sighed. _Better get going – I expect MJ will be wanting me to model some more sooner or later, and I've got to pick up some groceries too – at least I have money to pay for them right now, which is always a good thing._

Seeing that there was nothing more he could really do that the fire-fighters and paramedics could do better, Peter shot a thick line of webbing towards the corner of the highest building he could see, and took a running leap in order to get himself airborne again.

Mad Jack watched from the shadows, his eerie orange flame illuminating the air around him just slightly. "Right on time, lad," he crowed softly. "Right on time." He moved out of the darkness and hovered noiselessly after Spider-Man, his odd flyer making no noise as he did so. "Don't be mindin' me now, will ye?" 

* * *

Roderick Kingsley felt just a little uneasy, despite his suit – filled with technology that Mad Jack had "graciously" offered to gift him with; the Rose had had to virtually drag the man's secrets out of him – making him invisible to the cameras that lined the walls. Ravencroft was not somewhere he planned to stay for long – the place made him feel extremely ill at ease. He did not feel comfortable knowing that Cletus Kasady and his ilk were here in all their psychotic glory and he felt hemmed in by the walls to a great degree. He supposed it was due to some minor childhood trauma or something similar, but for the life of him he couldn't remember anything that approximated to this. A straitjacketed Typhoid Mary filled the air with twisted laughter and hooted with glee at some private thought as Kingsley passed her cell.

"I can see yoo-oou," she cackled, licking her lips with her long, slender pink tongue. Kingsley felt a shudder go down his spine, until he realized that she wasn't looking directly at him, but rather straight at the wall, her eyes filled with a crazed inhuman light. "I can see you… Daredevil…" she cooed. Kingsley stifled a shudder and moved forwards as quickly as he could, until he reached the cell he'd been looking for. 

Inscribed on a metal plate next to the door was the legend _Osborn, __Norman__._

Kingsley grinned, all former uneasiness rinsed from his system. "Hello, Norman," he said softly. 

* * *

The Kingpin felt his fists clenching as the stubborn old mobster refused to give any ground in their so-far-quite-civil discussion. Gritting his teeth, he spread his hands wide and said "My apologies if I haven't made myself completely clear, Don Fortunato. Some elements of my territory are under your control at present – some areas of Manhattan and Harlem, for instance. I would like them back. I am prepared to meet any price you would like to offer me." Jimmy Six raised an eyebrow.

"_Any_ price?" he asked. "Howsabout you an' I do a little negotiatin', here?" Fisk was about to open his mouth to reply again, when Fortunato cut him off with an angry gesture.

"No deal, Fisk. Those territories are mine now," he snapped. Pointing at Jimmy, he continued "Ignore my son. He sometimes gets a little… overzealous." His eyes narrowed. "I think that will make him a fine heir… one day." He raised a hand to his mouth and began to wheeze again, his lungs stuttering and struggling for breath for a moment or two. Then the coughing became a little more serious, liquid gurgles echoing in Fortunato's chest and twisting his grizzled face into paroxysms of pain.

"Dad? You okay?" Jimmy put a hand on his father's arm, his face betraying his concern for his father, but Fortunato shrugged him off angrily.

"I'm all right, boy. I've survived worse." He straightened a little uncertainly, and then smoothed out the creases in his long coat, wiping at his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. Delilah smiled to herself silently when she noticed that it was flecked with pink spittle and some tiny drops of blood.

"You look… unwell, Don," the Kingpin said, with a small smile on his face. "Perhaps we should adjourn until another day?" His smile deepened, his eyes still cold and flinty. "Or perhaps you ought just to give me what I want."

Fortunato shook his head again, a little more decisively this time. "You're stubborn, Fisk, I'll give you that," he said weakly. "My lands are my lands. I want you to respect them and keep out of my way. Those are my terms for any peace. They're not going to change." He put a hand to his mouth again, and a thin line of blood dribbled out of the corner of his lips. He glanced at it, and his eyes widened. He was about to say something when his body was seized by another fit of coughing, this time a lot fiercer than the last. His legs seemed to fold underneath him, and his body curled in on itself, until he suddenly screamed in pain and his limbs seemed to thrash of their own accord. Pain slashed itself across the old man's face again, but this time a lot more virulently. Jimmy 6 knelt down beside his father as the old man's struggles grew weaker and weaker, until they stopped abruptly and Fortunato's body went limp. Jimmy 6 looked up at the Kingpin, whose expression had changed from one of consternation to one of immense satisfaction.

"I take what I want, Don Fortunato," he said, although he seemed to be addressing Jimmy 6 more than Fortunato's corpse. "You would do well to remember that."

Jimmy's face twisted in pain and anguish. "That's it? You think you can just order me about now my dad's dead? There ain't gonna be any peace no more, Fisk – not now you did this." He rose from his crouch next to Fortunato's body and stomped towards the Kingpin, waving back his men. "This ends here. You're goin' down, fat man."

Delilah stepped in front of her boss, smiling seductively at the prospect of fighting someone worthy of her skills, and cracked her knuckles. "Don't bet on it, punk," she said huskily, and licked her lips in anticipation, but then the Kingpin pushed her aside. 

"Enough," he said. "This is an annoyance I will deal with personally." He closed with Jimmy and delivered a meaty punch to the younger man's jaw, Jimmy's head snapping sideways uncomfortably. Jimmy staggered backwards and then hurled himself at the Kingpin again, his fists flailing in an untrained rage. Coolly, the Kingpin gripped him around the waist and pivoted so that Jimmy was slammed into the ground. Barely out of breath, Fisk sneered at the younger man. "You amateur. I was trained by the finest martial artists money could buy. But you? You're just an untrained thug." Jimmy reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, thin knife, slashing at the Kingpin's leg with it. With a disdainful expression, Fisk moved backwards with a deceptive speed and aimed a powerful kick at Jimmy's torso with one tree-trunk-like leg. There was a crunch of bone and Jimmy screamed. Fisk sneered again. "Idiot." But before he could deliver another crushing blow to Six's body, the younger man had managed to get to his feet and close with the Kingpin again. He would be severely hampered with his injury, but Fisk did not doubt that that would in any way make him less of a threat. Jimmy Six, as if to confirm that analysis, pulled out a gun from the inner pocket of his jacket and trained it on the Kingpin. 

"Don't move," he said, as he staggered to his feet. "Don't you even _blink_. Now let's us _talk_ about what you're going to give me for killin' my dad, shall we?"

Fisk was acutely aware that he was all-too-vulnerable to the bullets that were in Six's gun, but he knew that Delilah was not. He was gratified to see her sprinting towards the other man and gripping him by the lapels even as he unloaded his gun's full magazine wildly into the air, throwing him into the wall of a nearby building. His henchmen took that as a sign to open fire, and Delilah flipped away gracefully, twisting and vaulting towards them and laying into the nearest thug with her bare hands and a pair of sai that she had had strapped to her legs. Her graceful but deadly movements carved apart the man with ease, and the rest of them were not much more of an impediment, Delilah's knives, throwing blades and tear-gas capsules making short work of the non-powered men. As soon as Jimmy Six began to rise, Delilah made sure that the first thing he saw was the thoroughly beaten remains of his troops.

The Kingpin was about to present Jimmy Six with the reality of his defeat, when a car drove up to the meeting place at great speed, its tires squealing as it came to an abrupt halt. The door opened and out stepped a man in a leather mask, and Delilah's jaw dropped. The Kingpin noted that, since it was extremely hard to surprise her, he should take this man seriously. Still, he would have to test the waters a little, and find out if this was truly who he thought it was.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said cordially. "I am the Rose, and I have come to – if you will pardon the expression – make you an offer you can't refuse."

The Kingpin snorted with contempt. "The last I heard, the Rose was a pathetic sham created to make a washed-up newspaper journalist look good. Why should we deal with you, Conover?"

"Yeah – what makes you think you got what we don't?" Jimmy Six added, sensing that perhaps the devil he knew was an altogether better bet than the devil he did not. The Rose tilted his head.

"Jacob Conover was indeed a pathetic sham. But then again, who says I'm Jacob Conover?" He laughed humorlessly as the two large men and Delilah looked nonplussed. "Now, then. I have a suggestion I would like to put to you. I can end this gang war, once and for all – _if_ you agree to add me to the table, theoretical as it may be. What do you say?"

The Kingpin pondered the point. Having two enemies was no better than only having one, but at least he had the measure of Jimmy Six. This man was an unknown, and that disconcerted him. Perhaps if he could get under that mask, he might learn something that could unseat this unknown quantity and weaken the Maggia to boot. He smiled thinly. "You have a deal. Don Fortunato?"

Jimmy Six sighed. The Kingpin could see that he had been going through much the same kind of thought process, and that did him credit – had he not been, the Kingpin would have been dissecting his properties almost immediately. "Yeah. You got a deal." 

* * *

Spider-Man swung up onto the rooftop of the Daily Bugle on his way home – he needed a rest and to change his web cartridges, and he figured this particular landmark was the best place to do so, seeing as it was on his route home. He sat down and rolled his costume's sleeves up, unclipping the empty web cartridges and slipping them into a pocket on his belt, before replacing them with new full ones. The small indicator lights on his web-shooters blinked green and he rolled his sleeves up again. As he stood up to get moving again, he looked down at the city, and saw the bustling crowd below moving about its daily business. His thoughts started to wander a little as his tired mind began to focus on other things. He wondered if May was really alive or not, and if Kaine was really being as magnanimous as his mysterious friend claimed. For that matter, he wondered if his "friend" was really acting in his best interests at all. He wondered if perhaps he would ever see his daughter again, or if this was just another cruel ruse perpetrated by Norman Osborn. He gazed out at the city again, and then… 

… something weird happened. He looked down, and noticed his feet were resting on absolutely nothing. He panicked for a moment, but then realized that he was… floating?

_What's going on?_ Peter thought, even though he had a sick notion of who it might be that was causing this whole situation. 

As if to answer his fears, the world suddenly spun crazily and before his eyes, Peter saw a giant pumpkin head appear as if from nowhere, the huge head accompanied by the Jack O'Lantern's mocking laughter. Spidey felt his vision blurring and twisting arbitrarily, strange shapes and colors flowing like water across his retinas. As his vision cleared, all that Peter could see was the Jack O'Lantern. The huge villain looked down on his tiny prey, seemingly suspended hundreds of feet above Manhattan, and crowed "I think we're missing something here, aren't we, lad?" 

* * *


	3. Assassin's Kiss Part Three

"Now, gentlemen," the Rose said calmly, his fingers interlaced inside their black leather gloves, "I believe we have something to discuss, do we not? This crime war is expensive and wastes valuable resources into the bargain. I've seen your forces slaughter each other on a daily basis, and I'm not impressed." He snorted. "This is how the mighty Kingpin and the Maggia settle their disputes? By spraying each other with lead until the other side can't throw any more men at you? Forgive me for saying so, but the defense of the Alamo was more well-planned than that. Now, then, this is my solution: I would like my former territories back." He saw the two big men begin to rail at that suggestion and held up his gloved hands. "Yes, yes, I know that's probably an unpalatable suggestion for both of you at this point in time, but let me elaborate – I would suggest that, with a third player in place, the situation will be stabilized. No more scrabbling for this or that. No more arguing over whose lands are whose. No more having to listen to small fry like Hammerhead in order to infiltrate certain areas of the city. With my good self back in control of the lands the Black Tarantula stole from me, I would suggest that your problems will be significantly reduced."

The Kingpin shook his head. "You're being naïve, boy," he said, his voice simmering with barely-veiled venom. "Do you seriously think that if we returned your territory to you, the war would end, just like that? If that's the case, then I can see why the Black Tarantula was able to strip you of your territory in the first place. Only a fool would be stupid enough to think that the Kingpin would allow another small-time mob boss into New York. I'd say it was crowded enough already."

Jimmy Six mustered the first signs of voice that he had been able to manage since his father's body had been taken back to his family home by a contingent of his soldiers. "He's right, Rose. Your way'd just make things worse. What'd we get in return for givin' you what you're askin' for?"

"Enough," the Rose said brusquely. "Will you listen, or not?"

The Kingpin sighed, and leant on his jeweled cane a little, mulling the Rose's words over in his mind. "The alternative, I suppose, is killing you, too. I think I've just about exhausted my quota of dead enemies today." He fired off a satisfied smile in Jimmy Six's direction, and watched with satisfaction as the younger man glared at him icily.

Delilah frowned. This was not what she had expected from the Rose. There was something on his mind, she could tell from his body language – lacking a face to read emotions from, she had learned to read his movements like expressions, and the way he moved, the way he clenched his hands, suggested that the Rose was not revealing everything that was going on inside his head. But then, that did not surprise her much. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. Time, she supposed, would reveal just what it was…

* * *

Spider-Man comforted himself by telling himself that what he was seeing wasn't real, that it was all an illusion. It didn't help much, as his stomach was trying to crawl out of his throat beneath his mask and his inner ears were telling him to get down on his knees and stay there until the danger had passed. Peter fought against them valiantly, keeping his eyes on Mad Jack's disembodied head as it floated around him mockingly. "There's a fine line between genius and madness, Spider-Man, and I think you're about to cross it, don't ye think?" it crowed. "Maybe ye'll be wantin' to take that mask off to get a little air, hmm?" The head cackled with laughter and swirled around him a little more, upsetting his sense of up and down.

"This. Is. Not. Real," he said firmly, trying to muster some confidence from his fractured brain. "I'm on top of the Bugle building. I was facing east. I've moved one-eighty degrees from there since then, so…" He raised his arm and double-tapped the button on his palm that activated his webshooters, shooting a thick strand of webbing across to the adjacent building, the sticky end of the webbing impacting on the side of the water tower and pulling taut as Peter tugged experimentally on it. Taking a running leap despite his nausea, Peter swung up and around, letting go of the webbing and coming to a halt on the rooftop of the other building. He saw, suddenly, that the Jack O'Lantern had not moved from his spot on the Bugle rooftop – the Bugle had, miraculously, reappeared in the time it had taken for Peter to swing across to the other building. Peter was quite relieved to see its familiar shape again, and then blinked behind his eyepieces at what Mad Jack was doing. Or rather, at what he was _not_ doing. The weird villain was standing atop his globular flyer, shrunk down to his normal size, his arms folded and his stature relaxed. 

"Well, come on!" Spidey said, trying to work up some sort of cutting pun or play-on-words that he could use. "Aren't you going to come at me? You know, bad guy attacks hero, hero plays along, gets punched a few times, punches back, bad guy goes down – that kind of stuff?" Mad Jack tilted his head.

"Oh, please. I'm not here t'fight ye, lad. Illusion's the game here. It's up to _ye_ to figure out why." He reached down to a pouch at his side, brought out a gnarled, lumpy candlestick, and ignited it with a touch of flame from his finger. "Heads up, boyo." He pointed the candle at Spidey and a long tongue of flame shot out with a _whoosh_, the sight causing Spidey to leap backwards out of sheer instinct. This, apparently, was what Mad Jack had been counting on, since Peter's leap landed him right in the center of a circle of flame that terminated at about chest height. "I'd not be tryin' to walk through that if I were you, boyo," Mad Jack said, cackling with laughter. "Not unless you _want_ to burnt to a crisp."

* * *

Roderick Kingsley stared through the reinforced glass at the hunched over form of Norman Osborn, the other man's sunken eyes staring out from a ravaged face at the window of the cell. The moonlight cast a puddle of light onto the floor through the latticed framework of the window, and Osborn watched it flicker a couple of times, seemingly oblivious to Kingsley's presence. Kingsley chuckled as he watched Osborn's silent vigil, realizing that this was just the opportunity he would need to regain Kingsley International from right under Osborn Industries' collective noses – and then immediately cursed himself as Norman's head snapped around at the sound, his eyes narrowing into their former merciless expression.

"Who's there?" he asked, his voice a little unsure (and hence not really a good companion to his face). Kingsley shrugged. _The play's the thing,_ he thought slyly,_ wherein to catch the conscience of the king…_

"Hello, Norman. You remember me, don't you?"

"No." Norman's voice was sad, depressed – and also, Kingsley could have sworn, a little angry at his present situation.

"Are you absolutely sure? We have a history, you and I."

Norman heaved himself off his cot and moved towards the door, to peer through the small window. Kingsley saw, for the first time, the hideous tangled scarring that lay across the other man's face, and turned away for a second or two. Then turning back towards him, he said, "We have a history. Doesn't my voice mean anything to you?"

Norman shook his head, his one intact eyebrow lifting slightly. "I told you, whoever you are, I don't remember anything."

Kingsley smiled – a cobra's smile, before it strikes its prey. "Focus on my voice. Then maybe you'll remember. You haven't forgotten me – the memories are still there, after all. A teacher of mine once said that all you need to remember things are chains of links. Link one thing to another, and not even a _goblin_ could take your memories away from you –"

"Kingsley," Osborn said slowly. "That's your name, isn't it?" His face twisted with rage, the thick, webbed scarring bulging out from his face. "You're lucky I don't remember anything other than that – leave now, and I won't call the guards." His eyes narrowed again. "And you're lucky I can't get through this door, either." 

Kingsley smiled whimsically. "My thoughts _exactly_." As he left the cell behind, he decided that Daniel would be perhaps be the best port of call. There would be little way that Daniel would be able to turn him away, after all…

* * *

"The old boundaries, gentlemen: I suggest we return to them," the Rose said, steepling his fingers. "I'm willing to respect your borders, as it were, if you'll respect mine."

The Kingpin's eyes turned to slits. "No. If you think I'm just going to _hand over_ lands that I acquired so recently, then I'm afraid you have a very misconceived idea of how this kind of business is done, my masked friend." He put a huge hand to his chin. "Don't make me have to end this in violence. I do find it _so_ distasteful."

Jimmy Six snorted. "You can do what ya like, Fisk." He turned to the masked man and continued "I'm willin' ta make a deal, Rose." He returned his gaze back to the Kingpin and said evenly "I'll give ya back the territory Dad took from ya if ya give some of the new land ya just…acquired… to the Fortunato family." Without waiting for the Kingpin's answer, he looked over at the Rose and said "And don't you worry – you'll get back what the Tarantula took from ya. Now what kind of a plan does that sound like to everybody?"

The Kingpin stroked his chin thoughtfully. It was certainly a good plan, and one that might even end the war, at least temporarily, but what could he gain from it, personally? _Something to ponder, at the very least…_

* * *

Spider-Man could feel the heat from the flames getting more and more intense, the air becoming hot in his lungs and making him sweat underneath his mask. He coughed as some soot managed to worm its way through the cloth covering his mouth, and shouted as loudly as he could "What do you want with me?"

Mad Jack chuckled – an eerie, weird sound coming from that pumpkin on top of his shoulders. "With you? Absolutely feck all, lad. This is just me gettin' some exercise and stretchin' me legs. Besides which, I always liked playin' with you, boyo – you're a real piece of work. Always make me laugh." The weird pumpkin mask twisted slightly, in what Spidey supposed was meant to be a grin. "Keep me on me toes, too. Ought to really have fun with Jameson when I'm done with ye." He cackled mercilessly. Spider-Man felt a rising anger in his gut – he remembered all too well what had happened to Jonah the last time that Jack had got those gloved hands on him. It hadn't been pretty, and Jonah had only just survived. Even now, there were still mental if not physical scars evident on the grizzled old newshound. In an instant, Peter knew that he couldn't let Jonah get hurt that way again. Ignoring the heat from the flames, he leapt at Jack, his hands outstretched. Jack simply moved aside on his flyer, and tapped a stud at his collar twice quickly. "Rose? Yer boyo Spider-Man is givin' me a few little problems here at the Daily Bugle buildin'. I'd like some back-up, if it's not too much trouble."

* * *

The Rose tilted his head suddenly, listening to the microbead radio link in his ear go off with a little high-pitched keening sound. He heard Jack's irritated request for assistance and looked straight at Delilah. "My dear Delilah, an associate of mine is having trouble with Spider-Man near the Daily Bugle. I'd appreciate it if you'd go and help him."

Delilah looked at him with contempt. "You don't pay my bills any more, Rose. Why should I do what you tell me?" She glanced over at the Kingpin in order to get him to back her up, but he nodded in agreement with the Rose instead.

"He's right, Delilah – unfortunate as that may be. It would be helpful to me if you would help whoever is presently occupied with Spider-Man dispose of that meddlesome nuisance." He waved her away. She gave the Rose a sour look and then disappeared from the meeting grounds, secretly thanking whoever had given her the chance to escape the meeting with her sanity intact.

* * *

Spider-Man swung away from the Jack O'Lantern's flame blasts as best he could, feeling the heat from them singe his back. He used his momentum to come to rest on the water tower he'd used to escape Jack earlier, and fashioned a web ball about the size of a baseball. He hoped that if he could get it across Jack's face even for a few moments, he'd be able either to get the hell out of dodge or somehow get some kind of advantage over this weird villain – he'd had too many bad experiences in his relatively few encounters with this creepy successor to Jason Macendale to miss any kind of opportunity he could get.

Before he could throw it, Mad Jack pointed a finger at him and Spidey felt the world spin. Dropping the web ball, he managed to jerk one arm out to the side just enough to be able to shoot a webline off, and swing himself out of the way, moving himself onto a stretch of closed road that was deserted, and would mean fewer civilian casualties if Jack decided to get nasty. Groggily, Spidey stood, shaking his head. _That's twice you've tried that, Parker,_ he thought. _Better not try for three._ Barely had he finished thinking that, however, when he felt the ground tremble from the impact of a large block of concrete near his feet. Looking round to see where it had come from, he saw Delilah standing about fifty feet away from him, her muscular arms crossed across her chest. "Boo," she said in her husky voice, giving him her best dose of bedroom eyes. Spidey looked to the sky under his mask. _I can't believe my luck sometimes…_

* * *

The Rose crossed his arms. "Well, Fisk?" he asked, a little impatiently. "What say you?"

The Kingpin sighed. "All right, Rose. You have a deal." He nodded to Jimmy Six. "His proposals are an integral part of my agreeing to do this, however – I don't expect to have to do solely as you dictate. Let me assure you, the Kingpin bows to no man."

"So I've noticed…" the Rose muttered under his breath. "Now, then, I see no further need to have our operatives tied up fighting that ridiculous pest Spider-Man. Shall I pass the word along to them so that we can go our separate ways?" The Kingpin waved vague, annoyed assent, and the Rose's mask shifted in such a way that indicated he was smiling quite broadly. "Jack? Leave Spider-Man be for now. Our business here is concluded."

* * *

Spidey evaded a few wild punches from Delilah, the super-strong woman's fists whistling through the air like piledrivers into concrete. She cooed, "Don't want to let me get my hands on you, huh?" as she did so, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "Men can be **such** teases sometimes." She was about to launch herself into another attack when the Jack O'Lantern called her off suddenly, his voice turned into an angry bark. Spidey watched, confused, as Mad Jack tipped his head to one side, his blank eyes and mouth curving into an annoyed frown. "Well, boyo, looks like you and I are goin' to have to finish this little soiree up some other time," he said, a tinge of irritation sounding in his voice. "You come with me." He gestured that Delilah should join him atop his glider, and the two of them began to rise away from where Spider-Man was standing. Peter thought that if he put enough power behind a good solid jump, he'd be able to reach them, but just as he was gathering strength in his calves, Jack dropped a small cylindrical object that broke in half in mid-air and released a blinding flash of light. Peter cried out in pain and staggered, rubbing at his eyes. It took a few moments for the effect of the flashbang grenade to wear off, and as his vision came back to him, Peter knew that he'd be alone. He muttered something about how this sort of thing never happened to Captain America, and then began the long, arduous trek home. _Mary Jane's going to laugh her cute buns off about this one…_

* * *

Mad Jack floated down through the skylight of the Rose's base. He had dropped Delilah off in the centre of the city – Delilah had told him that they were close enough for her to get back under her own steam – obviously she had been under the mistaken impression that he had never seen the Kingpin's lair before. Jack had laughed for a good long time after that. He floated down into the belly of the lair, and saw his employer below, his leather mask set to one side. That alone intrigued Jack a good deal, so he set his glider down a few paces away from the Rose, and stepped towards him, saying "Time t'pay up, lad. Jack does his work, Jack gets paid, no?"

The Rose turned, and Jack stopped in his tracks – which in itself was saying something. After all, it takes a lot to put a master of illusion off his guard. Jack found himself congratulating this new Rose. The man under the mask was the same man who had acted like a lackey for the Rose, who had approached him a few months earlier arranging a mercenary contract for Mad Jack's services.

The Rose was Richard Fisk. 

"Yes, of course," Fisk said, tossing a thick bundle of money towards the bizarrely-costumed man. "Here. I think that ought to cover your expenses and your bonus, don't you?"

"I think so. Not that it's any o' me business, mind ye, but why didn't ye just talk to me as Richard Fisk from the start?"

Fisk laughed – a cruel, sharp laugh. "You're a fine one to talk, 'Jack'. Maybe when you choose to take off that ridiculous pumpkin, we can talk about giving away secrets." He scratched his chin. "But let me assure you, masks and subterfuge are the best way to deal with my father. This is just the way things are. Why do you think Father attracts the attention of so many do-gooders in masks and tights? No, the Rose I am, and the Rose I will have to remain, until I have unseated my father from his lofty perch for good." He laughed again, and Jack felt a shudder run up his spine for the first time in a long, long time.

"I'll be going, then," he said, in a slightly subdued voice. "Unless ye need me for anything else?"

Fisk waved him away. "No. No, get out of here. Do whatever you like. I'll call you when I need you again."

* * *

The room to which Jack removed himself was a way across town. Old movie posters clung to the walls, their edges peeling and yellowed. Damp ate at the floors and ceilings. Here and there a cockroach scuttled across the floor, chittering to itself loudly. Jack squashed one under his boot, enjoying the sound of its shell cracking and the sensation of its insides spilling out.

"Ah… home sweet home," he said, sarcasm thick in his voice. From his belt he pulled out a small picture of J. Jonah Jameson and set it beside a picture of a middle-aged man with greying temples and horn-rimmed glasses. 

Satisfied with the arrangement, Jack sent a small licking tongue of flame towards the picture of Jameson, and watched it flicker into bright, short-lived flame. "The time's coming, Dad," Jack said to the other picture. "Jameson's goin' to pay for what he did to us."

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
